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A day of chasing dogs and pheasants. Todays cast of dogs: Addie, Emma and Maggie, aka the twisted sisters. Each dog had its turn. Old lady Lucy stayed home. Someone had to guard the yard from marauding rabbits.

The day started out cool, which, as it would turn out was a blessing. Hot dogs don't hunt too good, hot humans either. We didn't have to worry. No sweat today. The wind blew through us most of the day. Thankfully it was from the south.

A skiff of snow lingered. Handy for tracking the wily running rooster.

The usual gig. The birds were out there, just had to find them. You get some, others get away, unscathed. Once they get up and get wind under their wings, away they go. And the ones you see first? They've probably already seen you. Can you say adios?

It's amazing how cagy a pen reared bird can be. They can be strutting around, eating grain in the morning. A few hours later, out in the field, they seem to realize....what do they realize? Hell…

I was going to call this piece the "Annual Report", but somehow I didn't think it right. The title would have been borrowed from a piece that Gene Hill often wrote about his yearly endeavors.

"The annual report is a misnomer. I don't know what it should be called, since it's a mishmash of glossed-over misadventures, distorted emphasis, selective memory, and a very human inability to face any facts that seem harsh, or unpleasant, or postponable." From "A Listening Walk, and other stories" by Gene Hill"
So here it is, a few random thoughts about the year past and a few wishes for the next. With all due respect to Gene Hill and his fine writing.

I find ways to visit the spring creek more, yet find myself fishing less. It's a treasure. In the short time that I've been preoccupied with this blog, the creek has served as the subject for many posts. Few of the posts dealt with the great fish that I've caught (there have been few…

I rarely get more than one shot of a bird on the wing from any particular flush. If there's any cover at all, it's hard enough to get a single shot, period. Here's a set from a recent trip to the field. This bird flushed straight up. No burst mode on my camera, if there is, I haven't figured out how to use it. So, each image is a separate press of the shutter. Sometimes I get lucky.
I like the look of old time photos, sepia seemed to do them justice. Stripped of color, one can search for the most interesting elements of an image. Just for grins, I've also shown the color versions. It's interesting to note how one's eye is drawn to color. In this case fluorescent orange, which, in my opinion, is one of the most obnoxious colors created. But, from a hunter safety standpoint, it's a necessity.
It's also interesting to note the changes in direction by the bird during the flush. It gets up, straight as can be facing away, turns, then turns a…

We got away for a few hours on Saturday. The dogs needed work. We needed exercise. The forecast looked pretty good. Getting to pheasant country in Montana often involves sitting in a vehicle while driving hundreds of miles. That luxury was not ours. So we did the next best thing, we went the route of the shooting preserve. Considering fuel and time and the condition of my back (there is no such thing as a comfortable seat, in any vehicle), it was a good choice. We'd been to Sanborn's before. Handy, nice cover, good birds, pretty views too.
Emma was the first dog to hit the field. She settled down after the obligatory initial craziness. We encountered quite a few birds that had survived hunts from previous days. They were cagey and flushed wild.
Now, pheasants and pointing dogs are not a match made in heaven. Play fair? You gotta be kidding. Even released birds have a survival instinct that's second to none. Springsteen wrote the song, pheasants wrote the boo…